


What Wasted Youth

by Brittany (drowninginaseaofdepression)



Series: Tumbling Down [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Past Suicide Attempt, Self Harm, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, it focuses more on the friendship between Stiles/Jackson, then Stiles/Scott because there's not enough of that, tw for panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninginaseaofdepression/pseuds/Brittany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just like being near him comforts the other two, looking at the stars comforts him. Looking at them and realizing that he's really only a speck on the universes infinity makes him feel small, insignificant-and safe, in a morbidly depressing way. It makes breathing a little easier when he realizes that there's no way in hell that they're the last three people on earth, that three hundred years from now their probably won't be anymore zombies and society can begin to rebuild itself, so in the long run he can't fuck up too bad, right? It's nice to realize that even though he's only a small dot in the universe, he's still there, and in three hundred years nobody's going to remember him, but he'll still be part of history. They'll remember what he went through, just not who he was. It's like being famous without anyone actually knowing who you are. Like a ghostwriter. It's a surprising relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Wasted Youth

"How much food do we have left?"

There's a rustling sound in the dark, and then,"A few energy bars."

Stiles sighs, feeling tired. "We need to stock up on supplies tomorrow, but until then..." He trails off, instead reaching up to tug on the rope holding the trunk closed, making sure it's tight and won't break easily. Satisfied, he reaches next to him and turns a small flashlight on, aiming it up so that the light hits the top of the trunk and lets him make out Scott's dirty face. He looks tired, but determined. Always so goddamned determined, though he's not sure for what. For life, maybe. He teases Scott about it but he's secretly thankful. Without him he'd have given up two years ago, at the very beginning.

"Until then, we sleep. We'll leave at dawn and head down to the nearest town." He produces an old and torn map they've been using for the last month from his pocket and spreads it across his lap, readjusting the light so it washes over the paper. There's a few dozen red dots, blue crosses, and other colors scattered all over it; red for big cities, towns, and highways that carry hundreds, if not thousands of Walkers, and need to be avoided. Blue for potential paths and destinations. Green is for the places and paths they've actually taken, and yellow is for places that have potential safe havens that they've heard about on the radio throughout the years. They avoid those as well, because Stiles has no doubt that by now they've been overrun and are ether teeming with the dead, or crazy people who wouldn't mind throwing him in their late night stew. Typical family recipes, you know.

He's following the closest blue line with his finger when he realizes where it leads and pauses, heart stuttering a little. Scott hears and looks up at him, turning his face away from a small crack in the corner to wait for him to explain.

Stiles avoids his eyes,"The closest town is Beacon Hills." He hears Scott's breath catch and hurries on, trying to cover his nerves,"I'm really sorry, I wasn't even thinking when I outlined it, just going through the motions, you know? But we can find another town, bypass it comp-"

"It's okay." Scott interrupts him, and Stiles can barely make out him shaking his head."I mean, we had to head back sometime, right? Making peace with our past and all that. It was your home as well, so don't apologize to me. And I know I took it worse then you at the beginning, between Allison and both of my parents but...But it's not our home anymore, Stiles. It's just full of ghosts. And besides, we need the food. Game is scarce the closer we get to Walkers." Stiles is always surprised at how zen like Scott's become. His face is worn and there's deep bags under his eye's, giving away just how restless the little bit of sleep they're able to get it (side effect of jerking awake every time there's a rustle, visions of rotten hands sneaking out to clamp onto their arms prominent), and his clothes are dirty and torn, but his hope is spotless.

They had ironically started referring to them as Walkers in the beginning after their favorite T.V. show, but it ended up sticking. There's just something so...childish about the word zombie. It doesn't accurately convene the horror the dead are. Or can be, before the rotting process gets far enough that their leg muscles can't hold them up anymore. Then it's just a matter of wearing thick boots.

"I know, I just..." He stares down at his hands, then continues softly,"I don't know if I want to. I'm not prepared for how much it's going to hurt. Going through our old streets, our old hang out spots, even our old houses-and realizing it's all gone, And the people-" his voice cracks and he stops, clenching his fist. They had made a pact at the beginning to never return to the town again, and it had been more for Jackson's and Scott's benefit then anything, but he's isn't made of stone: years later and it still hurts. Apparently, the pact was void now. Scott reaches over and squeezes his knee.

"Get some sleep, I'll take first watch." He says softly.

They had a guide at the beginning. They'd already known the basics, of course. If TV and video games prepared them for anything, it was that head shots are a must. The only difference is that they failed to mention broken legs are broken legs, and they aren't going to magically keep walking on them after a fatal blow.

They wrote down six rules on a dirty subway napkin before the first group they traveled with came, and then it was eventually forgotten, though it's still in the front pocket of his backpack. He has a feeling that had they stuck to them, especially number one- _don't get attached to outsiders_ -it would've hurt less after the group got ambushed and the walkers took everyone else out. Night is always the worse, when he can't do anything but dream about it. Scott had given up on waking him from the nightmares four months in, instead settling at the foot of whatever makeshift bed they've made for the night in his beta form and making sure that if he can't protect Stiles from his mind, he can at least protect him from any outside forces. Tonight, though, he settles for a half transformation and presses his ear against the side of the car again, listening and waiting.

They're always waiting. Funny: now that time doesn't really exist anymore-at least, not the way it was-they seem to be paying a hell of a lot more attention to it, even if they're just calculated guesses. Without it, they'd have been dead by now.

Be up by the time the sun rises, eat by the time it's highest in the sky then rest for thirty minutes, find shelter by the time it hits the tree tops, scout the area, and then settle in by the time the sky is grey. Repeat.

Just don't stop moving.  
...

His dad gets home from work late, bags under his eyes and a tired, drooping smile that Stiles can see right through. His skin looks a little gray (okay, really gray, but Stiles is an optimistic and willing to give him the benefit of doubt and blame it on the lighting) and blood vessels have popped in both eyes, making him look a little like. Well. A zombie. (How ironic that is, looking back on it now). Not as attractive of a look as Warm Bodies made it out to be.

"You okay, dad?" He had asked, squinting, a little nervous."You aren't coming down with the flu again, are you? No way am I dealing with that again, I'd have to ask her to take care of you. Miss McCall might like you, but I really don't think you've reached that relationship stage yet. Not unless you want her to hightail it."

John attempts a smile again, but ends up landing somewhere between a grimace and a frown.

That puts him on edge, and he does a quick body check. There's an angry looking bite mark on his right forearm that Stiles is going to question him endlessly about until he gives, and suspicious red spots on his uniform that he's more then happy to pretend are ketchup stains. Besides that and his less then attractive parlor, he seems fine. Nothing fatal, at the very least.

"For the last time, we aren't dating, Stiles. We've been getting calls to the station all afternoon. It's like attack of the cannibals around here." Stiles raises an eyebrow, the universal signal for _go on_ and _I'm so intrigued, please continue._

His dad pauses, rubs a hand across his face, then takes off to the kitchen to grab a beer and pull a chair out at the table. Stiles follows quietly, debating whether he should remind him of his diet that definitely doesn't include alcoholic beverages, but decides against it. A little buttering up to him can't hurt anyone, especially if it gets him to spill more details. The gruesomer, the better (Scott has a tentative trust with Stiles extreme fascination of all things dead, but seems to accept it well enough, as long as he isn't cutting up bodies and distributing them around town like a demented Santa).

"So, cannibals...?" He prompts slowly, pulling out a chair across from his dad. It definitely wasn't just the lighting.

John takes a long swing before answering, staring out the window with an undistinguishable expression."We got a call at around three this afternoon from an old lady; started screaming about demons and the apocalypse. Thought it was our typical nutcase, you know? Except we got there and there was a young man on the porch eating her. Just...digging in, like it was ice cream or something." He shudders, his grip on the drink tightening,"Tried to get him to step away, but he just turned around and ran at us. Took six bullets before he finally went down. Just not before he bit me. We got seven other calls like that."

"Bit you?" He asks slowly, and his dad holds his arm out. The bite looks worse up close. "But why?"

He gives Stiles a hard look,"You run with werewolves, kiddo. Are zombies that big of a stretch?"

Stiles feels like his breath got punched out of him. "No, that's not-"

"Possible?" He finishes."I could be wrong, but I talked to the coordinator and she said from the state of his flesh he should've died early yesterday. Meaning he shouldn't have been walking today. Its not the most far fetched thing thats happened before."

Stiles swallows thickly. Suddenly, he's not so intrigued.

He doesn't want to voice what they're both thinking, but between having a best friend whose a werewolf and another who use to be a lizard, it really isn't that unbelievable. And if it's true, it's not something some heavy chains and training sessions can fix.

And that scares the shit out of him.

If it's real, and his dad was bite...

"I can't lose you, too." He whispers, voice catching, and his dad reaches over to grab his hand tightly

"I don't know what to believe, Stiles. But I do know that three things are going to happen tonight." Stiles waits patiently for him to hold up a finger,"One, you're calling Scott over here to stay with you." That makes sense, considering Mrs. McCall is out of town for the weekend on a business call."Two, you'll lock both your window and door tonight, and I'll give you a gun to keep just to be safe." He pauses to smile; a real, fully blown one. "And three, you're going to make me the biggest, greasiest burger that you can make with what we have."

Stiles doesn't even protest. They're both thinking the same thing, and if this is his dads last night, he'll be damn of he denies him greasy food. Of course, he could be overreacting and it's just some crazy cult shit, but he's not taking any chances. Besides, when has anything ever been that simple in his life?

He takes out his phone and texts Scott, trying to keep his hands from shaking and not panic. He has no idea what the fuck he'll do if its a zombie outbreak.

Werewolves? Sure.

Vampires? Maybe.

The walking dead? A bigger no then the possibility of Lydia giving him the time of the day. He can't cure a virus. He can occasionally save a town, but not the whole damn country.

And with his dad having been bite? He grimaces and shoves the thought to the back of his head.

To: Scott  
From: Stiles  
**my place 2night??**

After a moment of hesitation he creates a mass text and sends it out to a few people on his contact list that he knows from school.

To: (Group message)  
From: Stiles  
**lock ur doors/windows 2night & stay nside plz**

He gets several messages back, his phone dinging every few seconds, but he ignores it in favor of getting up and going to the kitchen, his fathers careful eyes tracking him.

"I love you, you know that?" He dad says after a few moments, and his voice sounds shaky.

Stiles nods, and tries to keep his voice light when he says,"Love you too, dad."

He's trying not to cry, because he knows that if this is it-if this is the apocalypse-there's nothing he can do but be strong and use his remaining time as wisely as possible. There'll be time for mourning later, but right now his fathers alive and breathing and he can't afford to freak out. Not if he's going to get Scott and him through this.

...

He wakes up to the sound of gentle growling and low, throaty groans echoing in the small space, leaking through the cracks of the vehicle.

"Fuck." He mutters, trying to gently untangle himself from Scott. They had laid down next to each other before Stile went to sleep, and now their legs are intertwined and Scott's draped over his torso. Trunks aren't exactly the roomiest beds, but are a million times better then sleeping out in the open.

"Stop moving." Scott hisses, his voice obscured by his teeth, and he immediately stills.

"How many?" Stiles asks instead, and feels more then hears Scott swallow.

"Maybe seventy."

"Fuck." He repeats, then stiffens,"Jackson."

"He's fine. Rolled under the seat when I heard them coming and alerted him."

Stiles relaxes. The Walkers have zero sense of smell and seem to only be able to hear loud noises. Which makes sense, since when you die your senses get muted, not heightened like in crappy zombie movies.

Jackson was the only other one who had escaped with them when the military had come to relocate them to a "safe haven". It happened a week after the outbreak, seven days too late to save most people. Lydia and Allison had been shoved into a different vehicle and went down a different path, because it was the safest way to draw the least attention from Walkers. That had been the last time they'd seen them. A person in their vehicle had been bitten and kept it a secret, and it's only because of Scott and Jackson that he had made it out when she had completely turned.

They didn't keep going ahead to see if the others had made it, too afraid of what they might find and not knowing the location ether way. Instead, they found a map in a abandoned subway and started walking.

They hasn't been good friends before the outbreak-or friends at all, really- but he was smart enough to realize that there's strength in numbers and stuck with them. And, well. It's kinda hard not to become friends with someone when you have to trust them with your life on a daily basis. He usually draws the line at sleeping with them, but you can't have your cake and eat it too. Or something like that.

Even if he is an idiot for sleeping out in the open instead of sucking up his pride and squeezing in next to them.

A particularly heavy Walker stumbles into the car and it lurches, causing Jackson to curse just loud enough for them to hear. It makes an almost hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat while Scott just snorts.

Ten more minutes of moaning and groaning-and not even the good kind, why is this his life-and it finally becomes a distant sound that fades more and more every moment, though the putrid smell of rotten flesh lingers.

"You know," Scott muses, finally leaning back so that him and Stiles are sitting next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, though their legs stay tangled. "Sometimes how slow they are really helps, but then shit like this happens and I can't but wish they'd just move a little bit faster." He tries to go for casual but he voice shakes, and Stiles can't blame him. Even now, years later, he can't help but be freaked out when packs wonder by them, keeps waiting for them to do some freaky mutant shit and find their hiding spot. X-Ray vision, maybe.

He knows it's harder on Jackson and Scott because of their heightened senses. At least Scott lets himself be comforted though. Some things don't change, and Jackson refusing comfort seems to be one of them.

Stiles carefully reaches over and grabs his hand, squeezing, and instantly he relaxes. Scott had tried to explain it once, about how his wolf is constantly fighting to be let out. It recognizes that he's more vulnerable while in his human form in this new world and wants to just run, but having Stiles near calms it because he's part of the pack but human and can't run with him. His wolf settles because since he's human, his first priority is to protect him, even if he sometimes needs reminding. It's always like that in wolf packs, shifters or not-its instinct to protect their weakest. He said that it relaxes his wolf side, knowing he's near and out of harms way, and it mutes the urge to leave to a dull thrum that he can block out. Jackson had begrudgingly agreed, then looked away like it embarrassed him to admit to being worried about Stiles, even if it's only his wolf (Stiles has a hard time separating the two). Its oddly touching.

Two years ago he probably would've laughed at someone if they suggested that Jackson would become part of their pack, then laughed some more with Scott about it later. He would've put it at the top of his list of impossibilities, right above zombies.

"Your turn." He mutters, gently nudging a pillow Scott's way, then reaching up to untangle the cords holding the trunk closed.

"Yes mom." Scott mocks, but obediently shoves the pillow under his head and waits for Stiles to slowly lift the trunk open. He looks both ways for Walkers before climbing out so Scott can retie it.

They're on the side of a road, hunkered down in the only vehicle they had come across for three hours. The further they go into the forest, the further signs of civilization become, though he expects that'll change when they start toward Beacon Hills.

It's always like that. You don't see a vehicle on the road for a few hours, then you see one, and then two, until you reach dozens of them piled behind each other.

He tips his head back and stares at the stars, noting absentmindedly that its almost a full moon and they'll have to find a attic in town tomorrow for him to settle down in when Scott and Jackson shift and run for a while. They don't wonder far, because somewhere in between the last twenty eight full moons they've gone through he's become both of their anchors. They'll still be far enough that if he gets in trouble he's on his own for a few hours. They always come back at around midnight and cuddle up to him, though Jackson will refuse to admit anything the next day.

Just like being near him comforts the other two, looking at the stars comforts him. Looking at them and realizing that he's really only a speck on the universes infinity makes him feel small, insignificant-and safe, in a morbidly depressing way. It makes breathing a little easier when he realizes that there's no way in hell that they're the last three people on earth, that three hundred years from now their probably won't be anymore zombies and society can begin to rebuild itself, so in the long run he can't fuck up too bad, right? It's nice to realize that even though he's only a small dot in the universe, he's still there, and in three hundred years nobody's going to remember him, but he'll still be part of history. They'll remember what he went through, just not who he was. It's like being famous without anyone actually knowing who you are. Like a ghostwriter.

"I always catch you watching the moon more then me, which is a bit ironic."

He doesn't look over at Jackson, just leans against the side of the car next to him. "I'm looking at the stars.

"Why?" Jackson asks, trying to make his question sound exasperated but coming across more fond, that sap. It's amazing how much two years can change a person.

Stiles grins. "It makes me feel infinite. Small, but infinite."

He feels more than sees Jackson stare at him for a moment, before he laughs quietly. Its a nice sound that he doesn't hear a lot. "I don't understand you. Now get in before a zombie wonders by and I have to save your ass again."

He sticks his tongue out but slides into the backseat when Jackson opens it. He leans forward to grab their bags from the front so he can sort through them and make a list of things they need to find tomorrow. He tries not to wince at how loud the door squeaks when Jackson closes it after getting in.

"So, Beacon Hills, huh." Jackson starts, slumping down in his seat so he can look out the window.

Stiles hums his acknowledgment, knowing from experience not to make a big deal out of it or Jackson will clam up and end the conversation. He starts digging through the first bag.

Two flashlight with dead batteries, one almost completely blank spiral notebook, two pencils, one pencil sharpener, three water bottles that are all almost running on empty, and a credit card.

At the beginning, he made Scott and Jackson spend hours learning to pick locks and hot wire cars with him. It had saved their life on more than one occasion. Funny how credit cards are just as essential to survival now than they had been then.

It's a quite for a few moments, and he's starting to think that's the end of the conversation but Jackson begins talking again. His voice is surprisingly loud in the small space.

"I don't think of that place like home, never have. My parents were always away on business and I was left to sleep in a empty house that I tried to stay away from as much as possible. I didn't know them well, But you two-you two spend too much time living in your memories and wishing it could go back to the way things were, but I don't. I can't afford to do that, and nether can you. It'll kill you, Stiles, wishing for something you can never have. The best we can do is keep going and hope that it gets better. I know that you and Scott both still think of it as home, no matter how much you deny it or lie to yourself. Just don't be surprised when all we find are skeletons tomorrow, literally and figuratively. This is our life now, and the faster you accept that the faster you can begin living instead of just surviving."

He doesn't say it harshly, just states it like a fact, so Stiles swallows down his anger, weighing his response.

"I can't shut myself down like you do, Jackson." He says slowly,"I can't pretend I'm okay or that it doesn't hurt that everyone we know is probably dead. Do you think I don't know we're going back to a town of dead people and old memories? But those people were friends, and I can't just act like they didn't exist. Maybe you don't know what it's like, because you didn't-"

"I didn't what, Stiles?" Jackson asks quietly, deadly, and he swallows. He went too far and he knows it,"Didn't lose anyone? I lost my parents long before the outbreak, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt knowing that now there'd never be a chance for things to change. That the possibility of ever having a family died with them. Danny, Lydia, Boyd, Aiden- everyday it's like a fucking gaping hole in my chest where they use to be, but I can't afford to feel sorry for myself. WE can't afford that. They're dead, Stiles, but spending everyday dwelling on that will ruin me in the long run. I'd go crazy. You're going to get yourself killed if you don't start living in the moment, and then who's going to remember them? They only die when nobody is left remember."

He takes a deep breath, then turns to Stiles, an open, honest expression on his face that he rarely sees,"I'm not telling you this to hurt you or be mean. I'm telling you because I know that we're going to go to town tomorrow and you're both going to get so caught up in remembering and mourning that you're not going to be sharp, and we can't afford that. One mistake, and we all die. And what happens if we see a Walker we recognize? Will you be able to shoot it?"

Stiles swallows, open his mouth to scoff and go of course, why wouldn't I be able to? but abruptly closes it.

Jackson sighs,"Exactly. Because your going to see them and think of them as the people you remember. You don't know how to draw a severe line between now and then. But they're not human, they're just corpses with human faces. Remember that."

He wants to argue, but knows that it's the truth, no matter how much it hurts his ego,"Guess I needed to hear that. God, when did you become the smart one?"

Jackson laughs, then nudges Stiles shoulder gently with his,"Implying I use to be an idiot, Stilinski? Careful, I hear wolves are vicious when they're insulted."

He snorts,"Please, you're more like a cub. Besides, you were never dumb, you just hid behind being an ass so nobody knew you actually had brains."

"Guess I can't argue with that."

They fall into an easy silence while Stile sorts through the rest of the bags and makes a list of what they don't and do have.

All together their stuff barely takes up all the room in their three bags, leaving plenty of room for their pillows, blankets, and more food. He takes the notebook out and carefully writes "batteries, food, water, and vehicle under "don't have". A water filter would be a life safer, giving them a safer way to drink from ponds and rivers. Their shoes are starting to get holes, and he's really not sure how much longer he can continue to duct tape them together. But he suspects those can both wait until they get the basics.

He looks over to see Jackson's eyes drooping with sleep and rolls his eyes.

"Go to sleep, dork."

...

Scott shows up two hours later, long after Stiles had finished serving his dad and shooed him off to bed.

Though not before be had laid a fully loaded gun on Stiles desk, gave him a meaningful look, and said I love you again. He tries not to think about how loaded those three words were, or how thats probably the last time he'll see his dad, or about the twenty seven unopened messages on his phone and thirteen missed calls, or the fact that impending doom seems very likely, and instead starts doing what he does best; research.

Scott doesn't bother to knock, just barges in and throws his bag on the bed before huffing and falling next to it dramatically.

Stiles swivels around his chair to raise an eyebrow,"Allison?"

"Allison." He confirms mournfully, voice muffled from where his face is mashed in the mattress.

He rolls his eyes and turns back to the computer,"What happened this time?"

"ShesaidshelovesmeandIranaway."

He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard,"What?"

Scott gives a growl of frustration and sits up,"She said I love you and I ran away."

He can't help it; he laughs,"Nice one."

Scott whines,"It's not funny."

Stiles is about to launch into a speech about how amusing and slightly sickening his puppy love is but stops, catching a glimpse of his computer screen. He reaches over and grabs his phone, turning and throwing it to Scott.

"Call her." Is all he says, giving him a stern look when he goes to argue.

Scott nods and slinks out of the room while Stiles turns back to his computer screen.

"Right." He mutters,"Zombies."

Stiles shifts through a few dozen The Walking Dead links before finding his first semi useful one. It explains that the idea of zombies began with voodoo religion in West African Yorubi. The zombie effect came from being drugged so that they'd be more easy to order around.

Not helpful.

He finds a few articles on ancient war journals accounting tales of the dead falling and then getting back up, but nothing useful. He gives up and spends some time finding survival tips and guides that he pauses briefly to print out. By the time Scott bounds back in, he's ready to rip his hair out in frustration.

"How'd it go?" He asks, turning to flit his eyes over Scott's face. He doesn't look happy, but he's not upset ether.

"I told her I love her and that I want to take her out to dinner tomorrow as an apology." He grins, but Stiles swallows thickly.

"About that..." He laughs nervously, wringing his hands and fighting down another wave of nausea and panic,"There's maybe, possibly the threat of a zombie outbreak?"

"Oh." Scott says, then his eyes widen,"Oh."

"And my dad may have been bitten?" He continuous weakly.

Scott only hesitates for a second before he's across the room, pulling Stiles up for a hug. That's the great thing about Scott-he's more of a emotional person then detail orientated.

"Tell me everything."

He has to spend a few minutes calming him down when he wants to go and get Allison, only getting him to sit when he promises she can come stay with them later and that he can call his mom to warn her, but overall, he takes it surprisingly well.

"Okay, so here's what I've been able to come up with in the last few hours." He tugs his laptop into his lap and brings up his bookmarks, clicking on one labeled "Mad Cow Disease Claims Town" near the end,"As far as I can tell, articles about mad cow disease have been popping up all over the country for the last two weeks. It's been pretty hush hush, but then four days ago a town was barricaded and the citizens not allowed to believe. Officials released a statement claiming that it was to contain a new strand of the disease. It leaves the residents violent and with a ah, fascinating, new appetite." Scott leans over and scans the article, words like "transferred through direct bites" and "a cannibilistic streak" jumping out, before frowning.

"Sounds an awful lot like zombies." He admits slowly.

Stiles nods and minimizes it, bringing up a Wikipedia page. Which, not his best work, but he's working with a time stamp here, dammit. Scott reads aloud over his shoulder.

"Mad cow disease happens maybe ten times in America every five years."

Stiles nods,"So dozens in just a month? Not just weird, but unheard of. Look; frequent violent outburst, aggressive behavior, slurred speech, jerky movements. Those are a few of the symptoms, but nowhere does it state they they have a sudden and intense desire to eat flesh. And then this," He brings up another page,"is the oldest article I could find. At least, where someone decided to snack on another human. Right next to the lab of a Dr. Luzbine, who mysteriously shut it down and fled the country after "work complications", as she put it."

Scott stiffens pale under the dull lamplight."How long until the infection seeps in?" His eyes are wide, but only show a fraction of the fear Stiles is feeling.

They both glance toward the end of the hall, where his dads bedroom is. "Witnesses put it anywhere from six to twelve hours."

"So your dad..."

Stiles looks away,"Locked himself in his room and gave me a gun." He gestures toward his desk.

Scott nods and doesn't push the topic,"And what's our plan?"

Stiles grins, the first real one in hours. "Call your mom and warn her. Then get Allison and Lydia over here with all the money they have. We're going shopping."

...

"Are you sure this is the correct way?" Stiles squints at his surroundings then back at his map. According to it they should've passed a intersection a mile back. They've only been walking for three hours, putting it at no later then nine. Still, he wants to be in town in time for lunch.

Of course, it's a old map, and the pass could very well have been covered up by nature by now.

Jackson huffs and snatches the paper from his hand, folding it and shoving it in one of his cargo pockets,"For the tenth time, yes. Now kindly shut up."

He frowns, turning to look at Scott with a "can you believe this guy?" expression,"He's being mean. Can't you bite him or something? Show him who's boss and all that?"

Scott snorts and shoves his shoulder,"I'm an omega, not a alpha. Technically nether of us ranks higher then the other."

Stiles waves a hand around,"But only technically, right?"

He doesn't get an answer.

"Fine. How about an exciting game of eye spy?"

Jackson groans,"We exhausted our eye spy abilities over a year ago."

Stiles gapes at him,"But eye spy is awesome. Eye spy is totally your best friend in the apocalypse. Why do I even stick with you losers? I should've been stuck with someone who could understand the beauty in the simplicity of a little game of-"

Scott slaps a hand over his mouth. "We should've gotten you a muzzle, is what should've happened."

Stiles licks his hand and pins him with a "you should've expected that" look. Scott recoils in disgust, and he continuous,"I'm sorry who's the dog here?"

Jackson sighs,"Technically, we're wolves."

"Technicalities died along with the constitution. Nice try, though."

"Just shut up."

Stiles is getting ready to reply when Scott freezes, flinging out an arm to halt them.

"What is it?" Stiles whispers, then follows Scott's gaze to the side of the road where a black shape lays on its side. It wiggles a little and Stiles reflectively tenses and places a hand on his waist, right next to where he carries a dagger he found a few months back. He can see Jackson shift his back pack and tighten his hand on his crow bar.

Fortunately, Scott sees as well.

"Wait! It's not a Walker." He frowns, looking confused,"At least, it doesn't smell like one."

It's true. Another thing movies failed to mention was the smell. There's no way in hell a walker could sneak up on you if it was older than a day, for you could smell it minutes away.

Stiles relaxes and steps forward, but doesn't move his hand,"Well, lets check it out."

They approach the shape cautiously. When they're close enough Scott reaches his bat out and pokes it, flinching slightly when it groans in pain.

"Came back for more?" It rasps, then slowly rolls over onto its back to reveal a dirty old man dressed in rags. Rags that are soaked in blood.

He squints up at them,"You're not Adam."

Jackson squats by his head,"No Adams here. What happened to you?"

The guy tries to laugh but it comes out as a wet gurgle, blood bubbling up and spilling from the side of his mouth only to catch in his beard.

"Humans, child. You should fear them more than any corpse."

"Dear God." Stiles murmurs, shocked. He gapes at what he can now clearly recognize as stab wounds. The guy looks amused.

At least, as amused as a dying man can.

"Ain't no God here. He's done gone and let the demons out to play. What's the use of praying to a man who ain't listening?"

"Wonder where he read that one." Jackson mutters, but has the decency to look sheepish when Scott glares at him.

"I'm going to be blunt here." Scott says and crouches on the other side of the old man,"You're dying. Is there anything we can do to make it easier?"

Good old Scott, with his inability to be sensitive when it counts.

The man doesn't look surprised, just slowly closes his eyes,"Just don't forget my name."

"And what's that?" Scott asks gently. Jackson's face is carefully blank.

"Bob."

Stiles covers his mouth and tries not to laugh, only more amused when Bob snaps his eyes open and glares at him, disgruntled.

"Well, go on. Do share with the rest of us."

He slowly lowers his hand, not having to look at Scott to know he's wearing his look of disapproval, or to glance at Jackson to see he shares his amusement.

"It's just... Come on, Bob? Like Bob The Builder? You could've changed it to something cool like Thor or Eagle and we would've never known." Stiles pauses,"Well, maybe, but we would've pretended not to."

Scott runs a hand over his face and rocks back on his heels, but the man just stares at him. It's uncomfortable to look back for too long, what with the blood casually poring out of him.

"I like Bob."

Stiles shoves his hands in his back pocket. "Bob it is."

The man continuous to glare at him suspiciously, but weakly waves a hand in the air." Good. Now go on, get out of here. I'd like to die with some dignity."

He secretly thinks its hard to die with dignity with a name like Bob, but he keeps quite.

"We'll remember your name." Scott promises, then only hesitates for a second before standing up and stepping forward. Stiles and Jackson follow closely behind, but they only get a few steps before hearing pained grunting.

"Wait!" Bob had pulled himself up on his elbows, eyes already looking a little glassy and voice low. "Be careful in town. There's hunters."

Jackson and Stiles share a look but Scott continuous to look at the man.

"Hunters?"

Bob gives a lopsided grin. "Hunters. People who hunt your kind. Two of them, both male." When they only stare at him the man shakes his head. "Your eyes flashes when you flinched. Don't worry, I won't tell."

And with that, he lowers himself back down on the ground and takes one last rattling breath before slowly breathing out and closing his eyes.

...

"What the hell was that?" Scott asks a few minutes after they've started back on the road. They're far enough that they can no longer see the lump that use to be Bob.

"Well," Stiles starts slowly,"Looked like a robbing. And he's right about your eyes. It's been so long since our last group that you've both stopped hiding any of your reflexes. Hunters could be a problem, though."

Their last group had fucked them all up. There had been five of them, excluding their pack. Two women and three men. Kawan, a disturbed dark skinned man, had seemed harmless at first.

Until he stabbed Scott in his sleep. He had taken it upon himself to kill everyone before it got "too bad" (Kawans words, not his). Had Scott not have the ability to heal freakishly fast, he would've died.

Stiles is never going to forget the vivid red he glimpsed staining one of the woman's tent when they had fled

"Not that." He growls, then whirls in front of Stiles and plants a hand on his chest. "You."

Stiles brings his hands up, taking a step back. Jackson watches warily from the side, ready to step in of he has to.

"So I laughed; I thought it was funny. Lighten up."

"Lighten up? A man was dying at our feet and you decided to crack a joke about his name?" Scott's eyes flash and Jackson steps forward.

Stiles takes a deep breath and counts to ten. The full moon always hit Scott sooner than it does Jackson. While he becomes quieter and nicer, Scott gets snappier and meaner. Stiles suspects that its because the moon brings out the characteristics they express they least.

"We can't be serious about everything all the time. It's not often we find ourselves in situations where there's something potentially funny. And yeah, it was a bit fucked up but this," He flails his arms around," is a fucked up situation. I'll take little pluses anywhere I can."

Scott doesn't answer, just turns around and starts walking. Jackson offers him a small, hesitant smile then tilts his head, waiting for him to go first. They fall into step side by side easily, both watching the way Scott stalks in front of them.

"Why would someone kill an old man? Robbing, I can understand if they were desperate. It's fucked up, but understandable. But killing him?" Jackson shakes his head, and Stiles catches a glimpse of how much what happened back there affected him; just a quick glimpse of vulnerability and confusion. That's all he needs-he's learned to read Jackson's body language almost as well as Scott's.

The fact is, laws helped keep humans...human. Helped inforce morals. Without any set of rules for people to follow, most people stopped caring about anybody but themselves. Want to kill someone? Well, there was nothing stopping you anymore. Nobody to prevent anyone from carrying out any sick or twisted daydreams they may have briefly thought about in the old world.

Bob was lucky that he had only been stabbed.

He thinks for a moment, trying to come up with a good way to explain.

"There was a artist," he starts,"that I read about once. She always did things involving her body in her art; used it to make people think or provoke strong emotion, like staring into someone's eyes for an hour without speaking or moving. Anybody who went in the room to be stared at usually came out a little teary eyed." Scott has slowed down slightly, trying to be listen to him. Stiles tries not to smirk.

"But there was one she did that really interested me. She went to a local mall and set up a table that contained a loaded gun, a knife, scissors, and a thorny rose on the left. On the other side were feathers, markers, balloons, and funny masks. She stood by it and held a sign up saying she wouldn't do or say anything for two hours, and that people could do whatever they wanted to her. What do you think happened?"

Scott finally gives up trying to be inconspicuous and walks next to him, looking apologetic but knowing he's already forgiven.

Jackson raised an eyebrow,"Not anything good, I assume."

Stiles nods,"At first people were nice. They tried to tickle her with feathers or make her laugh. But when they couldn't get a reaction, they became irritated. They cut off her shirt, stuck thorns in her side, and cut her arms. One man pulled the gun on her and threatened to shoot her, but another person intervened. Do you think they would've done it if they knew there'd be consequences? If she could go to the police or fight back?" He waits for it to sink in."They hurt her because they were curious. Probably wanted to know what it felt like to hurt a person. If someone was willing to pull a gun on another person in a highly public place because they had permission, what do you think they would do to someone without an audience or laws?"

Scott shudders,"Bad things."

...

They find the town less than half an hour later after doubling back because they'd realized they had passed the entrance.

It looks like a ghost town. Wind whistles through the trees, doors hang of hinges, and wrecked cars litter overgrown yards and sidewalks. It's almost unrecognizable.

They stay quite aside from quick quips about what was what as they a pass their old streets.

He's surprised that it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. There's a dull ache, but it's manageable. Jackson was right; it's not home, just a playground for old memories.

"So what's first?" He finally asks after pointing out Greenburgs old house. They try not to stare too hard at the black blood splattered over a broken window.

The window that had been his.

"Well." Jackson claps his hands together, something made a little difficult by his weapon. He stares down at it for a moment, confused, before smoothing over his face. After years on the road their weapons and back packs have become extensions of them, and made just as easily forgotten."Lets start with a vehicle. I, for one, don't want to leave you without a get away vehicle while me and McCall are galloping in the woods."

Stiles smiles. Maybe it's wrong, but he always prefers Jackson when it's closer to the full moon, since he stops second guessing his words and says the first thing that comes to his mind. Which is usually pretty great for his ego.

Affectionate Jackson is the best Jackson.

"You, worried about me?" He teases, laughing when Jackson tries to frown and shoves at his shoulder.

"I don't want to listen to him bitch when we only come back to your corpse, is all." He mutters darkly, rolling his eyes when Scott smacks the back of his head.

His lip twitch gives him away.

"How about a minivan?" Scott says thoughtfully. "Miss Darken use to have one."

Stiles waves him forward,"Lead the way, buddy."

They're walking side by side when Scott wrinkles his nose and stops.

"Smells that?" He asks. Stiles has to wait a few seconds before it hits him; a cross between decaying mulch and spoiled meat.

"Yeah," Jackson says, pushing Stiles behind him then dropping to a defensive crouch in front. Not thats he's complaining, weak and easily infected human he is. They seem to be immuned to the virus, however. Basically every scientist's wet dream."Smells like the dead."

Stiles snorts,"That line was so cheesy, what the hell."

They ignore him, of course.

They hear them before they see them. A slow, soft shuffling interrupted by occasional grunts and groans. Stiles isn't sure why they don't just duck behind a car, but doesn't question it; he's not worried. Death does a shitty job on reflexes, leaving most walkers immobile after a few weeks, then unable to even use their arms to crawl after a few months because their muscles had deteriorated. As far as they've been able to tell, they're only truly harmful the first twelve hours when decay hasn't started and they still have as much control and speed as a human. Their aren't many of those any more, so now its really only down whether you use your senses properly. Its at around the six month mark that they truly die.

After two years, mobile zombies are rare and far between, unless they're traveling in a pack. Those usually consist of dozens of them migrating from bigger cities, though they're still weak. The few that are left are quickly taken out by a quick blow to the head.

He suspects this is a werewolf thing, protecting a pack member and all. Which is a millions times better then the time Jackson tried to make out with him when the full moon finally hit him. Overly friendly Jackson is by far the one he likes the most.

There's only three of them, two woman and a man. They appear around the corner of a house, making their way toward the car they're currently standing behind. Their skin is gray and rotten, but he can still make out distinct features, like the blue of one woman's hair or the red of a jacket. They haven't seemed to see them, however.

"Kill them or move on?" Scott asks, voice low and eyes flashing.

Jackson slowly straightens from his protective crouch. "Take them from behind?"

"There's a innuendo in there somewhere," Stiles mutters.

They ignore him again and step out from behind the car, glaring at Stiles when he moves to go with them (protective bastards, this is one side effect of the full moon he could live without). The walkers catch sight of them soon enough and begin limping toward them with renewed effort.

Stiles actually feels a bit sorry for them. They look pathetic, almost, and they're slow enough that Scott and Jackson wait for the three walkers to reach them before lifting their weapons. One of them gets close enough to Scott to grab his jacket, but he just yanks it back easily and swings his bat at her head, which crumbles like wet clay. Not a imagine he's fond of.

Jackson takes care of the other two, choosing to get up close and personal so he can use his claws. Just a few swipes to their forehead and they drop. It's almost disappointing how easily they go down now.

It's eerily quite when they resume walking, nothing but the drag of their feet or birds and the occasional stray dog making noise. Though, he has to admit that there's a certain beauty to nature reclaiming everything. It's not until their turning down Jean Street that he realizes Miss Darkens use to live right across from his house. It's also not until then that they see two figures standing in the road, decidedly not inhuman.


End file.
